


Taxing Times

by the_random_writer



Category: Cut & Run - Madeleine Urban & Abigail Roux
Genre: Advice, Bad Advice, Crack, M/M, Snark, Taxes, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-11-13 06:03:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18026117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_random_writer/pseuds/the_random_writer
Summary: It's tax return time in the Grady-Garrett household - maybe the one and only time of the year when Zane's more organized than Ty.Set in April 2012, a few months after Ball & Chain, before Ty and Zane are married.Please don't treat Ty's advice about tax returns as legit :-)





	Taxing Times

First name and middle initial? Easy.

Last name? No problem.

Home address? Hands down, the best part of the form. Zane couldn't help but smile as he entered the details for the row house. His home now, as much as Ty's. Hopefully, for many more years (and many more tax submissions) to come.

Social Security Number? Nope. Not a goddamn chance. He didn't remember it now, hadn't remembered it for the last eight or nine years. He rose from his seat and walked to the hall to grab his wallet from his coat pocket.

On the couch, Ty snickered and looked up from the magazine he was reading. "Don't remember your Social Security Number, huh?"

"Course I fucking don't," Zane retorted. "I'm forty-six and it's nine goddamn digits long. These days, you're lucky if I remember which way round to put my pants on."

"Trying to turn that into a dirty joke, but nothing's coming to mind."

On his way back to the table, Zane paused behind the couch to lean over and steal a quick kiss. "Glad I'm not the only one whose brain isn't working as well as it used to," he murmured, running his hand under Ty's chin.

Ty's hand snaked up behind Zane's head, pulling their lips together again. "You're assuming my brain worked pretty well to begin with."

"Fair point, yeah." Zane patted Ty on the cheek and reclaimed his seat at the table, flipping his wallet open. "Which means you shouldn't make fun of me, cus you probably don't remember your Social Security Number, either."

"Two-three-six, three-five-zero, seven-nine-six," Ty rattled off.

"Okay, I take that back," said Zane, grinning. "Don't suppose you want to remember mine for me as well?"

Ty shook his head. "Sorry, hoss, you're on your own. My memory ran out of expansion room a couple of years ago."

"I've never seen you have memory issues." Unless forgetting where he'd stashed emergency packets of lube counted as a memory issue. But probably not.

"I remember most things just fine. But old things I learned years ago." Ty wrinkled his nose. "It's remembering new stuff that's more of a problem."

Zane smirked. "Do we need to open you up, swap out your dusty, aging pair of five-twelves for a shiny, new pair of ten-twenty-fours?"

"Okay, and what fucking language was _that_?"

"You never had to upgrade the memory chips in a desktop computer?"

"Lone Star, in what suicidal fantasy world would you _ever_ let me upgrade a computer?" Ty asked. "Unless by upgrade, you mean kick it, shoot it, blow it up and throw it out a window on the twenty-fifth floor?"

Grinning again, Zane flipped his document folder open, preparing to enter his slips one at a (numerically ordered) time.

Ty's brows shot up. "Jesus, Lone Star, is that your _slips_?" he asked in an incredulous tone.

"Uh, yeah?"

"Why the fuck is the pile so _neat_?"

"I like to be organized."

"So do I, babe. But there's organized, and there's _organized_." Ty gestured at the papers. "I mean, they don't even have any wrinkles in them. Did you take them upstairs and _iron_ them first?"

"I don't like doing my tax return without having everything lined up on the table and ready to go," Zane said. He ignored the ironing comment—he was neat, but he hadn't gone _quite_ that far. "I hate having to stop halfway through to go look for something I forgot. It's less stressful when everything's in place from the start."

"That's _so_ wrong," Ty muttered.

"Says the guy who won't even come into the kitchen if the coffee mugs on the hooks aren't all facing the same direction."

"That's a matter of aesthetics. What you're doing is the devil's work."

"It's just a tax return, doll."

"Exactly!"

"It's much more efficient this way."

"It's the IRS, Zane. Fuck being efficient!"

Zane's temples began to pound. "So, what, I should file a tax return that's a mess? Covered in coffee stains, and full of corrections and errors?"

"Yes! Make the bloodsucking bastards earn their keep. Or, even better, make them do all the work for you."

"How the _hell_ do I make the IRS do all the work in my tax return for me?"

Ty set his magazine aside. "Okay, first of all, you get an envelope, right? And not a regular envelope." He held his hands a couple of feet apart. "The biggest goddamn envelope you can find." He wielded a finger. "There's a reason for it. Trust me."

"Big envelope, gotcha."

"Then, you take your 1040."

Zane glanced at his, at the top of the pile. "Yeah?"

"You drop the 1040 in the envelope, add your W2 and any other slips you're submitting, seal it, mail it and leave it to the IRS to figure the rest of it out."

"Lemme get this straight. Are you _actually_ saying you make the IRS do your tax return for you?"

Ty grinned like a possum eating a sweet potato. "You bet your sweet Texan ass I do."

"And they never send it back with a sternly-worded letter threatening you with an audit, and warning you to do it yourself?"

"Not so far, no." Ty shrugged. "I never have more than a couple of slips, usually just my 1040 and W2, so it probably takes them twenty minutes, tops. Given how much I fuck it up when I do it myself, they've probably realize it's the easier option."

Zane turned back to the table to glare at his pile of slips and forms. Why had _he_ never thought of that? Probably because, knowing his luck, not only would the IRS absolutely _not_ help him out, they would turn up at the door to arrest him for felony evasion. Maybe even large scale fraud. "How long have you been doing this?" he asked.

Ty wrinkled his brows. "Since my second, no, third year in the Corps?"

"Bet you twenty bucks that's why they help you out," Zane grumbled. "Cus you were in the Corps. Your documents'll all be going to some sweet, little, flag-waving lady who wears a stars and stripes sweater to work, and who owns a pair of dogs called Apple and Pie."

"Don't think the IRS has any sweet, little, flag-waving ladies. But yeah, you could be right." Ty grinned. "And maybe flag-waving grandma loves badass FBI agents just as much as she loves badass marines."

"If they do it for you again this year, enjoy it as much as you can. This'll be the last time you file a W2 from the Bureau." And given where Ty had been for more than half of the previous year, he probably had a W2 from the Marine Corps as well. Did the Marines even issue W2s? Did soldiers deployed to active combat zones even pay taxes, at either the state or federal level? Given how complicated military paperwork was supposed to be, he was scared to ask. "I guess if you just drop everything in an envelope, you've never used the e-filing option?"

Ty shook his head. "That's technical stuff. Bad juju. Not taking the risk."

"Please tell me you at least fill out your personal information?"

"Sometimes, sometimes not. But I _do_ at least always sign the 1040." Ty frowned, then snapped his fingers. "Actually, no, that reminds me, there _was_ one time when they sent my stuff back. Because I'd forgotten to sign the form."

"What did you do?"

Signed it and sent it back in. Didn't even use a new envelope. Just put the new stamps right over the old ones."

"That was it?"

"Yup."

"Unbelievable," Zane muttered.

Ty snorted. "That's exactly what I said when I got it. All that goddamn effort, just for one lousy signature. Not like they didn't have plenty of previous samples on file. You think they could just've forged or photocopied it for me."

Zane squeezed his eyes shut. The next time Ty was out of the house for two or three hours, he was going to hunt down the ex-Marine's SSN and most recent tax assessment notice, pretend to be him while he phoned the IRS, and figure out just what kind of mess his partner's taxes were in. He couldn't remember ever seeing an overdue or non-payment notice, and nobody had ever tried to kick down their door (at least not for tax return issues), so maybe it wouldn't be as bad as he feared.

"Don't take this the wrong way, doll, but sometimes, living with you makes me a little bit crazy," Zane said.

"Not _my_ fault you can't think outside of the box." Ty waved at the folder. "You should try it. See what happens."

"Thanks, but I think I'll stick to doing it the way I'm supposed to. I kinda like to sleep at night." And in his own bed, instead of in prison.

"How many slips do you have?"

"Not many." Zane thumbed through the pile. "My 1040 and W2, plus a few others for trust income and capital gains."

"That because of your stake in the ranch?"

Zane nodded. "I always have something to report. More complicated some years than others."

"You got any interesting deductions or losses to balance it out?"

"Not this year, no."

They'd both incurred some minor medical costs in Scotland and New Orleans, but the FBI had footed those bills. Or, to be more precise, the FBI's health insurance provider. Zane could only imagine what kind of headache their forms had caused for the company's claim processor.

"You're probably gonna get reamed," Ty warned.

"Shouldn't be _too_ bad."

"You ever claim a deduction or loss for anything funky or weird?"

"Not that I can think of, no. I know not to put my head above the parapet"—Zane glared at Captain Make The IRS Do Your Tax Return For You—"so my returns have always been pretty vanilla."

"Speaking of weird, did you know the IRS actually has a procedure for collecting taxes after a nuclear war?"

"Pretty sure that's an urban myth, doll."

"Don't be so sure. This is the Infernal Revenue Service we're talking about. They barely give up chasing you when you die. No way in _hell_ they're gonna give up chasing you just because you're living in a nuclear wasteland with no concept of wages or money."

Zane pursed his lips. "Hmm."

"What?" Ty asked.

"I was just wondering…"

"Uh huh?"

"You think they have a procedure for a zombie apocalypse as well?

Ty grunted and rolled his eyes.

"It's a perfectly legitimate question," Zane said. "I mean, first of all, if you're undead, that's not the same as being dead, right? Which means, theoretically, you _could_ owe taxes on all your pre-apocalypse income and gains. What if you own a large rental property portfolio? Who deals with all your finances, then? And what if it's not a seamless experience? Or an immediate reanimation? What if you're dead for a couple of weeks _before_ you become undead? How would that work? Could you legally use the same SSN?"

Ty picked up his magazine. "Not listening. Forget I asked. Go back to doing your taxes."

"I could tell you some funny tax jokes instead."

"No thanks."

"But I doubt you'd depreciate them."

Although, since a joke was an intangible asset, surely amortization was a better approach?

"Lone Star, I swear to God, one more shitty pun out of you, I'm gonna call the IRS, tell them you're running a rent boy ring out of an office down at the docks, and hiding millions in ill-gotten gains in a bank account in the Caymans."

"I can't fuck you if I’m in jail," Zane warned.

"I'll ask them to send you somewhere they allow conjugal visits."

"That's mighty considerate of you."

"Considerate's almost my middle name."

"Considerate, sure."

"Speaking of people being considerate…" Ty started.

Zane's pen ground to a halt. He knew _exactly_ what that politely neutral tone meant. "Uh huh?"

"Did you know the IRS allows you to deduct the cost of pet food if you keep the pet for a business purpose?"

"We're not getting a cat."

"Not even a tax-deductible cat?"

"Not even if it fills out its own 1099 and eats every mouse and rat in Fell's Point." Which was saying something—Fell's Point had a _lot_ of rats. And not just the type with a tail.

"You're no fun."

"That's not what you told me last night."

Ty snickered. "Which reminds me, did you know some guy once tried to claim a tax deduction for sperm donation?"

"I would ask how much he was donating, but I'm not sure I want to know."

"For the sake of his palms, you have to hope he claimed for all the hand lotion as well."

"Okay, shush," Zane said, holding up a silencing hand. "This is the tricky bit of the form. Don't distract me. Need to be sure my numbers are right."

It was tricky, but it still only took him ten minutes. "All done," he said, shuffling his papers into place.

"What's your damage?"

"Looks like I owe them a couple of grand. I'll do it by mail, send them a check."

"Make sure you use the third party check trick," Ty told him. "Oh, and the dollar cash trick as well."

"The fuck are you talking about?"

"Pay someone to write you a check for a dollar less than what you owe. Endorse it over to the IRS, use it to pay most of your bill."

"Is that even allowed?"

"As long as the check's endorsable, course it is, yeah."

"What's the point?"

Ty rolled his eyes. "The point is, it takes the IRS _way_ more time and money to process than a personal check."

"So, it's just an inconvenience for them?"

"When the IRS is involved, there's no such thing as 'just' an inconvenience. I know you're not really religious, but think of it as doing the Lord's work."

Zane sighed. "You really don't like these people, do you?"

"It's the Income Removal System. What the fuck is there to like?"

Good question. Nothing instantly came to mind.

"So, what's the dollar cash trick, then?"

"That's when you pay a dollar of what you owe them in cash. The guys in the extractor room have to take any cash they receive to a special desk on another floor, fill out a whole bunch of forms."

"Even for a dollar?"

"Even if you send them a quarter. But I don't think they take coins. And a quarter seems a _little_ bit petty."

"Just a little? Zane drily asked.

"Hey, even I have my pettiness limits."

"So, how the hell do you know all this stuff? Did the Marine Corps send you on a 'How To Fuck With The IRS' course during Recon training?"

Ty shook his head. "Wasn't the Corps. It's a Grady thing. Finding ways to piss off the IRS is practically a family sport. Been doing it for years." He snickered. "Should see some of the tricks Chester's pulled. Would honestly make you weep with joy. One time, a few years back, he _actually_ managed to convince an agent he should be allowed to deduct the cost of his shovel, on the grounds it was a medical support device."

"What other tricks have you used?"

Ty's whole face lit up, in a way Zane had seen before only when he was talking about cats or guns. Which meant annoying the IRS was _really_ a passion for him. "When you mail stuff in, always staple your forms together down the right side. The automatic extractor machines can only remove staples on the left side. Oh, and use as _many_ paper clips as you can. Like, seriously, there's no such thing as too many. Sign every page, even when there's no signature field. Cus signatures have to be manually checked." He grinned. "My personal favourite is to line the bottom of the envelope with glue and wait for the glue to dry before you drop in your forms. The extractor won't work, they'll have to open it all by hand. If they damage your forms taking them out, that's on them, not you."

"That's _evil_ ," Zane said.

"You think my tactics bad, you should see what my mom does."

"Knowing your mom, I'm scared to ask."

"It's actually kinda cute. She writes them a letter, maybe a half dozen pages, telling them how the local football team's doing, what kind of cake she just made, where she's thinking of going on vacation, what the weather's been like. If she's feeling really fruity, she'll write them a lecture on the perils of avarice or lust." Ty shrugged. "Usually avarice, cus that's about money. She doesn't think IRS agents have sex."

"I'm hoping there's a method to her madness," Zane said. And he agreed with Mara about the sex thing. He was pretty sure IRS agents were either grown in a vat, or they reproduced through binary fission, like giant, suit-wearing amoeba.

"It's cus the IRS is legally required to read and log every letter it gets, in case it includes important financial information."

"You're all insane."

"We're not insane. We're _creative_."

"Uh huh."

"And we're nowhere _near_ as bad as the guy in the house down the hill. A few years ago, he tried to claim the cost of building a nuclear fallout shelter in his back garden."

"Lemme guess. As a home improvement, right?"

Ty shook his head. "As a health care expense. He claimed having a shelter would prevent him and his kids from dying of radiation sickness in the event of a nuclear war."

"That's actually pretty smart."

"Maybe. But the IRS refused it." Ty snickered. "Get this, though. Only because he couldn't prove Bluefield would be in the radiation zone, given its distance from the nearest strategic target. Can you believe that?"

"Was gonna say no, then I remember who we're talking about."

"Like folks from Texas are any better. Least in West Virginia, we don't lie awake at night trying to calculate the tax loss on cows."

"That's actually a very technical subject. You have to know which animals you're keeping for sale, and which you're keeping for draft or breeding." Zane snorted. "And don't get me _started_ on the recovery period differences between the General and Alternative Depreciation Systems."

Ty gave him the dirtiest of all dirty glares. "I swear to God, Garrett, the _things_ that come out of your mouth."

"I'm a numbers guy, okay? And I grew up on a ranch. What the hell'd you expect? Poems about puppies and flowers?"

"An occasional dirty limerick wouldn't do any harm."

"Uh huh."

"If you know those things, I guess that means you used to help your dad with the books?"

"A little bit, yeah, back before I was married. He knew I was good with the math."

"What about now?" Ty asked. "It's a pretty big ranch, must be a fair bit of work. Does he have someone to do all the bookkeeping for him?"

Zane nodded. "An accounting firm in Austin. Dad's known them for years. They're a reliable bunch."

"Couldn't you get them to help you out as well? Do your personal taxes for you as part of the deal?"

"Maybe."

"So, why don't you?"

Zane wasn't sure he liked where the questions were going. He grabbed the calculator to check his numbers again. "Doesn't seem worth it," he said. "Not like my return takes me that long. And they couldn't help me with my Maryland taxes."

Silence.

Zane looked up to see a grin spreading across Ty's face. "What?" he demanded.

"You _like_ doing your tax return, don't you?"

Dammit.

"It's a very methodical process, okay? It's… satisfying."

Ty snorted. "If that's your definition of satisfying, you're not being satisfied enough."

"Um, wouldn't that be a problem on _you_?"

"I'm saying nothing."

"So, you're not gonna offer to reset my satisfaction criteria for me?"

"What, _now_?"

"It's five o'clock on a Sunday night. You got anything better to do?"

"Nothing immediately comes to mind, no."

Zane's lips curled into a grin. "So, why don't you take me upstairs and show me how your dick's like the tax code?" At Ty's bewildered look, he rose from his chair, walked to the couch and leaned in to kiss his partner again. "Cus the harder it gets, the more I'll get fucked?"


End file.
